Sniffing and Squeezing The Fruit and Vegetables

I had a rare opportunity to visit the supermarket after work last week, on the way to pick up the children from Auntie K's.

I don't often go to the supermarket and use online shopping. Less stressful but fairly boring as I end up ordering the same stuff every week.

I revelled in wandering round sniffing and squeezing the fruit and vegetables, looking at all the new products and committing them to memory for my next online shop.

I am an avid people watcher. In fact, avid doesn't quite cover it ... I LOVE watching people ... their behaviour, interaction, foibles, habits.

I wandered with my trolley and watched the frazzled lady with her three children hanging off the trolley arguing over a Fruit Shoot; The man with his meal for one and beer perusing the condom and lubricants shelf; The old couple looking at stain removers.

Old Lady - Pointing "Is it the same as that one?"

Old Man - "I don't know I haven't brought my reading glasses, I can't see what it says"

Old Lady - In loud whisper "Does it remove large areas of blood?"

The Old Man looked at his wife in horror and then at me, at which point I scurried off to peruse the cake aisle and see what else the 'meal for one man' had put in his basket.

Love Me Tender

Me - "I love you"

3 year old - "I love me too!"

Breakfast at Ariel's ...

So, I told you I was going away (Travel and relaxation? In the same sentence?) and up until today I couldn't tell you where.

Now I can spill ... I'm going to Walt Disney World, Florida to do a parent review ... without children or husband ... A.L.O.N.E

... which is strictly not true, because I'm going away with some other fantastic Mummy bloggers.

My initial reaction to spending 5 nights sans enfant was one of absolute wild hysteria. That is 'Hooooray, uninterrupted sleep hysteria' and not 'rocking back and forth how will they cope without me? hysteria'.

Now it has actually sunk in I am swinging from Hooray hysteria to 'how will I cope without them?' hysteria.

I haven't told the children yet, mainly because they wouldn't really have any comprehension of where it is and what it is that I'm doing ... unless of course I mentioned to the 4 year old that I'm having breakfast at Ariel's ... which of course I won't, for fear of finding her in my luggage on arrival at Orlando airport.

I spent Saturday driving to Liverpool to renew my passport (Oh, how I have aged in ten years). I have no sense of direction but was pretty confident that with optimistic thoughts and a bit of sunshine I'd find it.

My Dad heard that I was going alone and told me in no uncertain terms he would be my navigator. This was fortunate. Apart from the fact that my sister pointed out over the weekend I drive like Cruella de Vil ... ten minutes into our journey I hadn't a clue which way to go!

The reason I'm doing this review is thanks to these people;

www.thinkparents.net

Go along and register.

Hopefully the next review trip won't be a ten hour coach trip with children!

Smug? Me? Nah!

Wee Parts One, Two and Loving the Tadpoles

Wee Part One

We live five minutes drive from lots of country lanes. Some of these country lanes have bumps, the sort that make your stomach lurch as you dip down. We call these 'wheeeeeeeees', which is the noise we scream as we fly over the them.

We have a particular favourite on the back road to Ilkley. The faster you go the better the 'wheeeeeeeee'.

The 4 year old informed me today that she knows how to tell a bad 'wheeeeeeeee' from a good 'wheeeeeeeee'.

4 year old - "A good wheeeeeeeee makes me do a little wee".

Wee Part Two

We spent most of Easter weekend with my sister, her family and some of her friends who had come down for the week from Scotland.

The friends from Scotland have a daughter who is four and got on famously with my 4 year old. After their first day together they declared themselves BFF.

The Scottish four year old is … well … Scottish and instead of using the word 'small' uses the word 'wee'. As my Dad, my aunt, uncle, cousins and my grandparents are Scottish it is something I give no thought to.

The 4 year old however has given it as much thought as possible.

4 year old - "Why does [the Scottish four year old] say 'a wee dog/a wee burp/a wee play/a wee boy"?

Me - "Scottish people use the word 'wee' for 'small'.

4 year old - "But if a Scottish person does a small wee, is it a wee wee"

Me - "I suppose so, yes"

4 year old - "… and if a Scottish person does a small poo is it a wee poo?" looks at me and sniggers

Me - sighing "I suppose so, yes"

This conversation I'm sure would have gone on ... and on ... and on had she not been in the car clutching an ice cream tub full of tadpoles which had been collected from Auntie K's pond ... to which she kept whispering "I love you".

Conversations with the 3 year old ...

... are so much simpler than conversations with the 4 year old.

Yesterday I was getting dressed. The 3 year old was sat on my bed.

3 year old - "What are they for?"

Me - "What?"

3 year old - "Your boobies"

Me - "When you were a baby they gave you milk"

3 year old - "Do I have eyeballs in my head?"

Me - "Yes, you have two"

... and with that he went about his business.

The same conversation with the 4 year old would have gone on for half an hour and she would have waited until we were in public before saying the word 'BOOBIES' really loud. By the end of my interrogation I would have needed a lie down and/or a large glass of wine.

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In other news

- More Than A Mother is hosting this weeks Mummy Bloggers carnival, go take a look.
- I will be reporting about whether I won the egg roll on Sunday tomorrow
- Stealth Boy has not been active since Friday

We have a family tradition ... update

We met at my sisters house on Easter Sunday. The children hunted for chocolate eggs in the garden. The dog joined in too and I am looking forward to picking up metallic poos from our garden.

We went to the park for our egg rolling and found a fantastic hill, complete with kamikazee rocks and tree roots for a bit of added excitement.

I didn't win ... my niece did, she was overcome with emotion as she has never won before.

My egg is the golden one in the green box, next to the black sheep.

The 3 year old came third. Perhaps with a weekly training session the 3 year old will win next year.

... then I can live the winning of the egg rolling cup through his eyes (and pretend the trophy is mine giving oscar style acceptance speeches in the mirror when I'm alone).

Stealth Boy strikes again ...

What you see in the 'after' photo is 7.5kgs of dry dog food.

What you fail to see in the 'after' photo is the dog puke on the hallway carpet, dog food on the hob and under the microwave and a 3 year old boy crying in his bedroom.

We have a family tradition ...

… egg rolling.

Every Easter.

Up until five years ago I hadn’t met another family that did it. We take it seriously, very seriously indeed.

… we have a trophy.

For those of you who are not with it (ahem) … we paint hard boiled eggs, find a hill and roll our eggs down it. The egg that gets the most points over three rolls is the winner. The owner of said winning egg receives the trophy, which is proudly displayed until the next ‘egg roll’.

In t'olden days, when I was a child it was simple. Paint egg, find hill, roll egg, slap winner on back, well done.

Now the rules are a little lax.

I follow the old style method of ‘place and release’. Placing my egg on the line and releasing it.

I have never won the trophy.

Other family members, I shall name no names, favour the ‘egg toss’. The wrongdoer appear to be applying the ‘place and release’ method but at the last minute tosses their egg to gain speed and distance. This causes much bickering amongst the family and the word ‘cheat’ is bandied about. We have over ten family participants and it can get a little heated.

When the winner has been presented with the trophy we have lots of leftover eggs. One year, pre small children, we decided to have an egg pelting session which ended abruptly when a Grandparent received a black eye.

Since then we have taken a cricket bat and taken it in turns to bash the eggs (away from other people).

This week I received an email from my sister. I realised the excitement was brewing when she asked for verification of the rules.

She wanted to know if she could use more than one egg?
No, you may not. If you want to show off your artisitic abilities then we shall admire your extra eggs and say 'oooh', but they will not be submitted. One egg is sufficient.

Could we make the rules on trophy winning clear?
Yes. The winner wins the trophy.

Anything else?
Yes, we are going old school. We are using the ‘place and release’ method. Anyone found to be using the ‘egg toss’ will have points deducted from the total and people will point and mock.

After 30 years I might stand a chance of winning the trophy.

I keep finding the husband staring off into space and I think he must be thinking about work. Then I realise, he is a graphic designer, he is already designing his egg in his head.

Like I said, we take it seriously.

Welcome to my world ...

My Dad and stepmum had the kids on Tuesday whilst I was at work.

I sent my Dad a text asking how they were getting along.

I received the following text back ...

Fed ducks at canal, 2 dams built in stream, clothes drying. Drawing next. The OAP childminders must drink a LOT of Red Bull

Travel and relaxation? In the same sentence?

Holiday (noun) : a time, often one or two weeks, when someone does not go to work or school but is free to do what they want, such as travel or relax

The word 'holiday' (or vacation to some of you) doesn't mean the same as it did pre children.

I can remember a time when a holiday involved a sunbed and a book ... not sharing a sunbed with a soggy child whilst trying to get sand out of a swim nappy and shouting across a crowded beach to the husband that child number two needs a poo.

Pre children we packed a bag, got in the car and drove to France. We didn't book anything, we took a chance. Husband and I spent a leisurely week taking in the sights. We slept in a different hotel in a different town every night ... apart from one night when we slept in the car (not through choice). We ate great food, drank excellent wine and it was an adventure.

We went to Barcelona, ate tapas, drank too much, laughed even more and mooched. Perfect.

We went to the Edinburgh Fringe. Took in some street theatre, some comedy shows, more drinking, mooching and some afternoon naps back at the B&B. Aaaah, bliss.

Since having the children we have had a variety of holidays ... all lovely but not much relaxing involved. Just because you are sleeping in a different bed at night and smothering yourself in suncream by day does not mean that your children will suddenly need less attention.

If I'm not dreaming that the children are drowning in the swimming pool (is it just me?) then I'm listening to them whine because they are too hot or watching them flick sand in each others eyes.

And, how many times can a headstrong toddler take off their sun hat in the blazing sunshine?

Then there's the travel. Fly, drive, sail ... take your pick. It's almost guaranteed to give you palpitations at regular intervals.

Don't get me wrong, there have been some marvellous moments during our holidays, but the stress levels needed to get to that point are, well, high.

I'm sure as they get older it will become easier. For one, when they can both swim I can stop having the drowning in the pool dream, right?

Anyway, I have been given an opportunity. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity for a few reasons;

1. I'm going away without the kids

2. I'm going away without the husband

3. I'm going somewhere that husband would, in his own words, rather gargle with razor blades than visit

All in the name of research

I can't wait, in a matter of weeks I shall be ...

... I can't say anymore for fear of jinxing my freedom.

In time my pretties, in time.

I've had a makeover ...

Back in November this is what the 4 year old thought I looked like;

BEFORE














Now, four months later I have had a makeover. The months have been good to me don't you think?

AFTER





















I have twelve fingers, before I had none.

I have mascara, a pink handbag and a pretty flower.

Most importantly the 'back boobs' have gone.

I'm liking the new me.

It's not snot ... or is it?

Tonight I was reading to the children in the 3 year old's bed.

With great gusto I was reading Gilbert The Shark. Much to the 4 year olds disdain I gave Gilbert a very broad Yorkshire accent ... "Aye, let's go tut wreck arrr Mum" I read.

It was then that I saw it. I say 'it' because I am unsure of what 'it' was.

Something was stuck to the wall above the 3 year olds bed.

To be fair it could have been one of many substances ... not poo though, the 3 year old prefers the carpet for that delight.

I'd love to think that the 3 year old hadn't stuck his finger up his nose then wiped it up his wall, that it was a piece of stray banana. But, I know my children well and nothing would surprise me.

It reminded me of an email which was sent round my ex workplace last year (shortly before I was made redundant).

Dear All

It has been brought to my attention that someone has been wiping their nasal extractions on the toilet cubicle walls.

Please could you refrain from doing so, not only is it disgusting but it is distressing other members of staff.

Kindest regards

Mrs HR Manager

The nasal extractions were not mine, however I must admit that when I was made redundant the thought did fleetingly cross my mind to start collecting my own nasal extractions and present them as a parting gift

I pointed at the offending substance on the wall ... "Whose is that and what is it?"

They looked at me, at each other and shrugged.

We not only lost an hour, we lost our sanity

An hour, one measly hour has caused havoc with bedtime.

Before the clocks went forward all was well …

Bath, bedtime story, snuggle, goodnight kiss.
All asleep by 7.45.
Glass of vino, feet up, watch TV.

Now?

Bath, bedtime story, snuggle, goodnight kiss.

Then at intervals to suit they get out of bed and hover at the top of the stairs shouting the following;

4 year old – “Mummy, I need to tell you a joke”

10 mins …
3 year old – “Mummy, I need a wee”

5 mins …
4 year old – “Mummy, I have an itch”

5 mins …
3 year old – “Mummy, Ratty is on the floor”

10 mins …
4 year old – “Mummy, he keeps tapping on my wall”

5 mins …
3 year old – “Mummy, pre-school tomorrow?”

10 mins …
4 year old – “Mummy, I accidentally fell out of bed”

10 mins …
3 year old – “Mummy, I need a poo”

5 mins …
4 year old – “Mummy, I've spilt water on my bed”

Then … silence.

That’s an hour of up and down, up and down, up and down. The same amount of time that was unpleasantly stolen last Sunday.

The morning after the night before I am greeted by yawning, grumpy children.

They argue about which cereal to have, which chair to sit on, who will look at the milk carton, who should get the fairy dust out of the bottom of the cereal packet, who is the more accomplished whistler ... and so on and so forth.

It takes three times as long to do anything. I feel like one of those women in the cartoons who is jumping up and down, bright red in the face with steam coming out of her ears.

I set off for school with the 4 year old who tells me she doesn't want to go to school because it's 'absolooooooootely boring'.

I want to beat her with my handbag, but I refrain.

A petrol station, a carwash and a non magical bottom ...

Yesterday after school we got in the car and I said in my jolliest voice "Who wants to come and get some petrol?" … funnily enough there was silence.

Our local petrol station was rammed and judging by the faces of my passengers they wouldn't take kindly to waiting for 15 minutes on the forecourt.

"It's OK" I said "Let's go to the other one".

"This is boring" said the 4 year old, "I'm hungry" said the 3 year old

Got to 'other one' to find it being demolished.

"Don't worry, let's go to the next one" I said, slightly less jolly.

"This is sooo boooooring" said the 4 year old, "I want crisps" said the 3 year old.

Five miles later and some crying from the 3 year old who was both mortified and mystified that I could not produce a snack out of my arse whilst driving we arrived at the petrol station … which was rammed.

I agreed that if they stop being grumpy I'd purchase a snack from the petrol station and then we'd go through the car wash. A bit of food based bribery never hurt anyone. The carwash was just a bonus in my eyes.

"This is really b …" the 4 year old stopped herself as the word 'snack' registered in her head. "I want big crisps ... please" the 3 year old said with a big smile.

Their only experience of car cleaning has been with the husband, he uses the handwash people who give the personal touch with a chamois leather. They may not have a working Visa but when they've finished you can see your face in the bonnet and that's all that matters.

Petrol pumped, snack purchased and off we went into the carwash tunnel. I tapped in the code, the children ate cookies.

Off it went, I was super excited "Oooooh look at that" I said as foam covered the car, then the big brushes started up, "Wow, look at the big brush rollers" I said .... "Check out the car blow dryer, isn't it good?".

They looked disinterested with a hint of fear. The 3 year old had his fingers in his ears.

When the carwash had finished, I got out to admire the gleam. It was a bit patchy, but still, better than before.

When I got back in the car I turned round and said "Wasn't that fun?!"

The 4 year old handed me her cookie wrapper. The 3 year old didn't respond either, he still had his fingers in his ears

"Can we just go home now and watch TV?" said the 4 year old, "Juice please" said the 3 year old.

The 4 year old turned to her brother and said "Mummy can't magic juice out of her bottom you know!"

An update on life as we know it

Me – I was shocked and slightly disturbed to find that all this blogging (which some may see as idle wittering) has earned me number 40 in the Top 100 British Parent Bloggers. It’s all very exciting and I don’t completely understand all the technical bits which got it there, but none the less I have told everyone (bar the monotone security guard on Friday) I have come into contact with over the past week.

I have had several broody moments this week. I keep seeing mothers with their bundles of joy out and about in the village. In my mind I would love another bundle of joy because the maternal lunatic which lives inside me has erased all the crappy/shitty/tear your hair out parts of having a baby. All I can remember are the good bits … swaying with my beautiful baby in the pitch black of night as I feed her/him for the third time in six hours. Bliss. What? Wasn’t I tired and vaguely psychotic through lack of sleep? According to the maternal lunatic in my head … nope, never. I blame the sudden bouts of sunshine this week which make everything seem très jolie.

Just for the record, the above paragraph is written in a special typeface that my husband can't read.

I am feeling fairly domesticated which is a vast improvement on my previous status of ‘definitely not domesticated, no sireee’. Not only have I ironed more than twice this week I have also bought a new Hoover and taken an interest in the garden. My new favourite hangout is the local garden centre.

Can I just mention that the highlight of the televisual year is upon us. The Apprentice is back on Wednesday. Personally, I can’t wait.

Husband – Doesn’t like the Apprentice and is more Alan Titchmarsh than Guitar Hero these days. Despite a bad back he has spent hours cultivating a vegetable patch. It started three weeks ago with a ceremonious bonfire (what is it with men and fire?) in the back garden to clear the way and now we have seedlings sprouting ubiquitously.

I keep having visions of him stepping onto a podium at the village summer fair to collect his prize for 'Yorkshire's Biggest Leeks'.

3 Year Old – Stealth Boy has struck again. Last week husband found a '3 year old sized soil angel' in his vegetable patch. This is hindering the above village prize giving vision.

I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning to find it flooded. From what I can tell he had been trying to fill the dog’s water bowl. Unfortunately he had then spilled it and repeated the process around twenty times.

The grommet operation was a success, he can hear, his balance is better and he actually starts conversations with people where before he would stand and stare at them as if they were talking in Swahili.

We are growing his hair, I say 'we' but I am actually against this idea as his head is already on the large side. He now has ear flaps and as his hair grows, so does his head. I keep looking at pictures of him after his last hair cut and contemplating sneaking off to the barbers for a quick snip.

4 Year Old – She is in fine fettle. Parents evening made us swell with pride.

Her writing has become much clearer and she likes to leave messages, albeit phonetically, on my computer. Her latest offering was … ‘Ben ten is a hirobicoshiyfitswivpipl’. As you can see she needs to work on her spacing too.

Her class keep getting nit letters, every time I read one I start to itch. No nits yet and I am crossing my fingers that we shall avoid them altogether. Who am I kidding?!

On a recent trip (one of many) to the garden centre she caught us unawares and she had to have an emergency poo. Husband was mortified as he and the 4 year old emerged from behind a polytunnel. She looked relieved. Apparently it was huge. We just can't EVER go there again.

Luckily there are other garden centres in the area that we can visit.

He had clearly left his personality at home

I went to a meeting on Friday in the centre of Leeds. The meeting was in a huge glass fronted office block.

To enter the building I had to use a revolving door. I pushed and it moved, but it was very stiff. As I popped out the other side into the reception I thought ‘surely it shouldn’t have been that hard’ and released a “Phew!”

The sullen faced security guard manning the reception said in a monotone voice “You went through it the wrong way”.

Thinking it hilarious I laughed and said “I bet loads of people do that, ha ha, how funny!”

He looked at me and said “No, just you”.

No witnesses have come forward ...

This is chief suspect, Stealth Boy, also known around these parts as the 3 year old. He looks a bit like Sportacus but don’t be deceived.

Over recent times he has been getting up very early, sometimes undetected, and it is believed that his latest covert operation is in full swing.

He leaves calling cards all over the house, evidence of his early morning work.

For instance, over recent weeks, I have found the following oddities which have a distinct whiff of '3 year old';

1. I start to read my book. After a few minutes I realise that either a) I have read the chapter already or b) I have travelled forward in time. My bookmark has been moved.

2. I pick up an apple from the fruit bowl. It already has a single child sized bite mark.

3. There is a beautiful yellow crayon sunshine on the dining room wall.

4. Deleting messages from my mobile phone sent items I come across a message to a friend’s phone saying ‘fogypipy jambegy?’.

5. A tub of fish food has been opened and upturned on the 13 year old's bed.

6. Three tulips out of 6 in a vase looking the as if they have been attacked with a sword.

7. Five calculators open on the computer desktop.

8. A biscuit barrel with half its contents missing and a trail of crumbs …

9. A lipstick crushed into its lid.

and the grand finale, crime of the century ...

10. A beanbag minus its innards.

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If you have some time to spare bob on over to Don't Tear Your Hair Out for the latest British Mummy Bloggers Carnival - there are some great entries!

What's that noise Mummy?

Sorry for keeping you all waiting on news of the 3 year old's ear operation!

Anyone who hasn't been reading long; the 3 year old had grommets fitted 2 weeks ago, a very simple surgical procedure. I just had to let you know because the way I describe things from here on in you'd think he’d had open heart surgery.

The big day arrived and for all my calm, laid back 'I’m cool with this', I became a complete bundle of nervous crazy brrrrrp ding.

The 4 year old went off to school and I had 2 hours to kill before we needed to set off. I washed, I ironed, I tidied, I folded things … most out of character. I kept looking at my oblivious boy and was hit by a huge wave of love and thinking he was just so handsome. At one point I had to pick up ‘Bikini Barbie’ and get her to slap me about the face whilst telling me to get a grip.

When we got to the hospital he went off to play in the playroom which was very well stocked with toys and children of all ages with various body parts bandaged.

In preparation we had talked about the operation, even read a book all about it (most nights at the 3 year olds request) but I really don’t think there was any comprehension. He simply obsessed about riding on a bed with wheels.

Time ticked by so slowly. We had visits from a nurse, a Dr and the anaesthesiologist who all asked the same questions and then tagged the 3 year old with an array of wrist and ankle bands. The 3 year old just looked at them each as if they were speaking Japanese, unaware of their significance.

At 2pm the nurse came and told us it was time to go to theatre. Only one parent was allowed with him whilst he was being put to sleep. I offered to toss a coin, but husband graciously let me go. As we walked out of the ward the 3 year old skipped ahead in his half mast jimjams with Lulu clenched between his teeth like a dog.

When we got into the theatre he lay on a bed looking at the strange men who had visited his bed earlier. They tried to cajole some conversation out of him at which point seeing all the medical paraphernalia I got tense and went into ‘cracking jokes’ overdrive.

I was told to chat to the 3 year old whilst they went about knocking him out. The nurse behind me must have sensed my mild terror and resorted to blowing up a rubber glove to distract him … and me.

In a matter of seconds they had the needle in without a flinch from the 3 year old, I on the other hand was rigid … but still holding my ‘everything is fine, I look like I've had botox’ smile. His eyes rolled back in his head and he was asleep, instantly snoring, clutching Lulu. I kissed him and left with tears pricking my eyes.

The nurse told me to go back to the ward, have something to eat then come back down in 30 minutes and wait in the corridor outside theatre for him.

25 minutes after swallowing a sandwich whole I was pacing the corridor outside theatre. After a further 20 minutes I was starting to worry. The door suddenly opened and a bed rolled out with a child on it, not my child. The nurse with the child asked if I was Mrs D and said my boy was already back on the ward. My eyes pricked again; I wasn’t there for him.

The next 10 minutes was a comedy of errors as I tried to get back to the ward. The staircases were blocked off due to maintenance work so I had to use a lift which went to every floor but mine ending in me being trapped at the back when it did get to my floor by wheelchair bound grannies on a day out who wanted to discuss with me the finer points of the canteen. I had to use everything I had not to shout 'I don't give a f*ck about the f*cking canteen, GET OUT OF MY WAY'.

When I got to the ward I could hear the wailing. My disorientated, groggy boy was beside himself. My husband was trying to comfort him. I sat and rocked him for what felt like an hour until he stopped crying. Apparently they had brought him up in another lift, totally bypassing me waiting for him in the corridor. He had cried all the way up. I was angry, but contained myself.

When he’d calmed down he ate 4 slices of toast, drank a huge beaker of juice and thankfully wasn’t sick on me. Result! After 30 minutes he was up and leaping around the ward in a slightly hyper fashion.

We were allowed to go home 2 hours after his operation and he slept all the way home.

The following morning I was woken by him getting into bed with me.

3 year old - What’s that noise Mummy?

Me – The birds tweeting in the trees.

3 year old – What’s that noise Mummy?

Me – The radiators filling with water.

Things I take for granted that he hadn’t been able to hear before.

In the 2 weeks since we have noticed a vast improvement in his hearing, speech and his balance.

He still falls over but not as often!

Wedging 'Boy' in the play oven

For the first six months of his life she referred to him as 'boy', refusing to say his name. I think she hoped that after a couple of weeks he'd go back.

When he was in the moses basket she would often give him cuddles which involved laying atop him and covering all his air passages with her love.

Once, he was in his bouncy chair fast asleep, only a few months old, I went upstairs for less than five minutes. When I returned I found her playing with her kitchen and the bouncy chair ... empty.

He was lying in a little ball on the carpet sleeping soundly. I hoped that she had just wanted to include him in her tea party and had not attempted to wedge him into her play oven.

Recently they have started to play together more, communicating in pretend adult voices (with an American twang), as they pretend to be parents taking their child (our poor dog) camping to the beach (our hallway).

Sometimes they sit on the sofa snuggled up together watching TV, other times they sit there and argue about who is touching who, who has the most space and who has control of the remote (so they can accidently purchase a diamond encrusted shoehorn on QVC).

When a child gives out birthday sweets at the end of her school day she always gets two, one for him and one for her. When I tell her she's not supposed to get two she looks aghast ... "But he's my brother!"

Half an hour later they will be arguing again. Yet, if she is not there he always wants to know where she is and vice versa.

As I write this they are playing with Mr Potato Head and sharing ... that's right SHARING. If I had written this last week the 4 year old would have been hiding some of Mr Potato Head’s vital limbs so that the 3 year old can’t complete his ‘Tatie Head’.

I hope their relationship will continue to blossom and that as they get older they will still want to spend time with each other ... albeit still bickering.

Muuuuuuumy ...... Muuuuuuuuuuumy ..... Muuuuuuuuuuuuumy

When the 3 year old was under general anaesthetic last week I have a sneaking suspicion the surgeon chanted subliminal messages into his ears to check they were working properly.

Something along the lines of ... "Wake up at exactly 4.21am every morning starting tomorrow and wander into your parents room and tell them it's time to get up"

They were supposed to give him grommets, not an internal alarm clock, set for what I consider THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

We have one of those fandangled clocks which projects the time onto the ceiling in bright red. For four mornings it has throbbed 4.21 in the darkness as I return my reluctant boy back to bed where he lies and either shouts, cries, sings or goes back to sleep. The latter happening only once or twice.

The shouting becomes unbearable, like water torture (I imagine) ... 'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy' then 'Muuuuuuumy ...... Muuuuuuuuuuumy ..... Muuuuuuuuuuuuumy'. It's amazing how many variations can be shouted and the different pitches which wear away your patience a little more with each shout.

I turn into a human yo-yo. Stumbling back into bed then being summoned for a kiss, to fill a beaker with water, a cuddle, to cover up his god damn sock clad feet or to assist him in having a wee. I turn into psycho-mummy telling him how furious I will be if he wakes his sister up.

Last night was the worst - first the 3 year old woke at 2.53 with a cough, then he woke his sister who started coughing too. I am able to testify that a cough can be passed through a wall. I, the human yo-yo staggered back and forth between the children. Cough tennis continued until at 4.17 there was silence for 35 minutes, followed by the equivilent of the Wimbledon Final of coughing.

The only good thing is that I have discovered that between the hours of 4.21 and 7.36 I do my best blog writing, unfortunately it is all in my head. By the time I am sat in front of my PC at a more reasonable hour it has all slipped out and I can remember nothing.

I am now at work, mainlining Diet Coke through a drip, holding my eyelids open with one hand and typing with the other. It's going to be a long day.

You can only imagine how hilarious this post was at 4.21 in the confines of my head.